Musical Hearts: A Love Disaster?
by CeilidhAnnwyn
Summary: Carrie Anne Simpson is the drum major of her marching band in 1964. She hates The Beatles, but will a run-in with them a year later on her walk home from a college marching band show make her see different, or will her new college drum major insnare her?


Musical Hearts: A Love Disaster? Pt. 1

**September 1964:**

The air stood still on the football field of Texas High School as the marching band stood in a straight line awaiting their inspection. I walked slowly down that line following the band director and the head inspector. Each band member stood perfectly still in their black and silver wool uniforms. I stared down each member with a piercing green gaze, scrutinizing each and every detail. If even a single strand of hair hung out of their shako, they were in for at least twenty push-ups, but that was nothing compared to if they had a button undone. The director and the inspector stopped in front of a little freshman flute who was shaking in her dinkles. At first, I didn't see what exactly was wrong, but I looked closer and saw that her blonde bangs were not pinned back and hung down from the visor of her shako. The two men made her fix it, and then nodded over to me.

I looked the girl squarely in the eye. She trembled like an autumn leaf on a tree and I could tell she was close to tears. I knew. I was like her once. But I had absolutely no pity. "Twenty-five push-ups," I said flatly, yet sharply. "And don't even think of doing them fake girl push-ups either, we don't do those here."

"But ma'am," said the girl, her little voice cracking. "I can't, I've never—"

"Make it fifty then," I said. I had no mercy for these people. I was the drum major, and what I said went. The girl was about to protest when I gave her another sharp look. Immediately, she dropped to the ground and did fifty, very sloppy, push-ups. I stood over her the entire time, watching every weak little move she did. "Make sure to have everything _perfect _for the next show," I said. "Even one little fuck up like that one will cost all of us. We can't afford an incompetent freshman such as yourself ruining our reputation."

"Yes ma'am," said the girl. I could see liquid building up in the bottoms of her eyes.

I said nothing back; I just nodded and walked away. The director and the inspector were at the end of the line now. Nothing else seemed to be wrong with any other members. As I walked away, I heard the girl start to sniffle. I was only doing my job.

Texas High School had its reputation built on its marching band. We've always won every competition we went to and had the best show in all of the United States. Last year, 1963, we became the first band in Texas to earn straight Tens in the states competition. I was their first female drum major. In the 60s, a female drum major was a very rare thing, mostly because most people thought females were too unstable to hold their own in front of the band. Whoever came up with that, however, never met me. I was the hard-ass of the band, the backbone, the best alto saxophone player in the county. I handled that band like a man, or even better. They respected me, even feared me, and that was just the way I liked it. I didn't want them to befriend me. It would only soften me. The only thing wrong with the band this year was the show music.

It was not traditional.

It was challenging, but too popular.

It was…The Beatles.

Ever since February, America had become obsessed with these four boys from Liverpool, especially girls. It was stupid, lame, dumb, and any other word you can come up with. I hated that the Texas High School marching band would go that low to play popular music in their show. As I made my way over to the podium as the band was getting set on the field, I cursed silently at the band director for lowering our standards. All The Beatles were was a bunch of pretty British boys that couldn't play instruments to their finest, so they resorted to writing cheesy little love songs about holding hands and the like. I was so sick of them.

As always, when I got to the top of the podium, I felt like I was on the top of the world. Although I was upset about the show, I smiled because I had complete faith in my band. I took my shako off, letting my thick, curly, black hair fly free in the breeze. A voice over the loudspeaker boomed across the field: "_And now, presenting the one, the only, Texas High School Lion's Pride Marching Band, ran by band director James Whitmore and drum major Caroline Anne Simpson!"_

I loved hearing my name over the loudspeaker. It felt so good.

_"The band will be preforming three tunes by the most spectacular pop group of this decade: The Beatles, including 'She Loves You,' 'I Saw Her Standing There,' and their first number one hit here in America, 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand!'"_

The stands erupted with cheering, mostly little prepubescent girls that came here to see their older siblings march. I loved hearing the cheering too, but I deeply regretted not standing up to say my own show idea during planning late last year. I kept a straight, serious face as I turned around waiting to give the salute.

_"Drum major, is your band ready?"_

I one fluid motion, I gave my intricate military salute and turned back around in an about-face to face my band. I put my arms up, blew my whistle, and the band snapped to attention, their reply of "Pride!" echoing in the stands. The bright stadium lights burned my eyes, but I didn't pay attention. I counted my band off blowing my whistle and conducting, and they were off playing "She Loves You" in the blink of an eye. I kept my eye on the band as I directed, but for some reason I couldn't keep my eyes off a curious-looking young man with dark hair standing in the inzone of the field. But I had to concentrate, no matter how odd the sight was. There was a prize to be won tonight.


End file.
